


Tea

by HouseOfFinches



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Scarlet Witch - Fandom, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Love, Romance, Slow Build, Smut, smut?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-10 05:52:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6942415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HouseOfFinches/pseuds/HouseOfFinches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Vision stood motionless in his room, looking toward the window but not seeing. He let his body's synthetic hormones settle, the spike leaving him feeling tired, drained. Once he felt in control of himself again, he sat on his bed, willing his mind to think of anything other than the burn of her skin beneath his fingers, the ache in stomach that called for more.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Set after AOU but before CA:CW. Wanda and Vision get to know one another.<br/>Alternating perspectives. <br/>Eventual smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Wanda awoke with a start. She sat up, putting a hand to her chest, feeling the rise and fall of her erratic breath. Her pulse raced and the sheen along her hairline began to cool. 

She took a steadying breath and glanced at the clock; a red 3:23AM glowed steadily. She'd managed to sleep longer than normal, she considered with mild annoyance. Wanda longed for the days of dreamless sleep, exhausted next to Pietro. But those days, just like her brother, were gone, a thing of the past.

With a sigh, she swung her legs over the edge of her untidy bed--the sheets tangled and the blanket crumpled along the floor. Wanda made her way to the small en suite. As far as she knew, each Avenger's room had its own bathroom in this new compound. 

She flicked on the light and rinsed her dewy face. The cool water was sobering, closing the space between her dreamscape and reality. The emotions spurred by her dreams didn't dissipate quite as easily, as the dull ache in her heart reminded her. She glanced at the mirror, meeting her tired eyes in the reflection. She noted the rudiness of her cheeks and, with a frown, the knots forming in her hair. Hastily she scooped up her tangled waves and tied them in a messy pile on top of her head. She would deal with unknotting them in the morning after a good conditioning.

Resolved that she wouldn't be sleeping again any time soon, she decided that a cup of tea might ease her nerves. Back in Sokovia, the days revolved around tea—breakfast, snack, and supper. It was a simple luxury she and Pietro rarely indulged in, as tea is hard to come by when one is a starving orphan. Now, however, tea was becoming part of her daily routine. The stillness of sitting by the large windows while letting the hot fragrant steam rise to her face was her meditation, her time to reflect. 

Wanda threw on a loose long sleeved shirt over her camisole and shorts and padded her way to the kitchen. The cool tiles beneath her feet felt invigorating after her heated nightmare. Nights like this were often still and dark and she took refuge in their solace.

Wanda switched on the lights in the kitchen, the glare from the polished counters making her momentarily squint. She knew this kitchen well enough, its design masculine, dark and clean. She opened the cupboard and pulled out her box of lavender chamomile tea. She observed the box, its light purple top and ornate writing. Were she in Sokovia, such a tea and its fancy box would be frowned upon. Her home country was big on simplicity, having long ago perfected a hot cup of black tea. But, as she reminded herself not for the last time, things were different now. 

She reached for the steel pot and turned on the faucet. She thought she sensed something in the air. Abruptly halting, her hair stood on end, allowing her skin to better feel the electric fluctuations around her. Fight or flight, an adrenaline panic pooled in her stomach. She heard a noise, something like a breeze but with a subtle hum. Wanda dropped the kettle in the sink, her hands radiating red, spinning to see behind her. Her mind automatically sent out its tendrils, searching the space for a presence.

Just as she thought she'd picked up a mental signature, Wanda saw Vision approaching her from an adjacent hallway. He wasn't walking; instead, he opted to use his power to glide, floating above the tiled floors noiselessly. Wanda was irritated with him for this. Why float around in the middle of the night like some strange red specter?

Wanda let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding, willing her body to relax, calming the flare of her hands. As Vision entered the light from the kitchen, Wanda noted that his crimson face held an uncharacteristic expression of confusion.

She too wore an expression of confusion, though her eyes carried both suspicion and a touch of anger. She never was good at keeping her emotions off her face.

Vision met her gaze. "Forgive me, Miss Maximoff," he said, his voice apologetic but curious. "I didn't know it was you in the kitchen." The way he said it irritated Wanda further, as if she were an outsider, like her presence was cause for concern.

Wanda returned to the sink, the water still flowing. "You know," she started, "it's rude to just sneak up on people like that." She filled the pot, a faint grin on her face as she smiled at her own hypocrisy—how many times had she done exactly that? 

She turned off the water, set the pot on the burner, wishing the old adage about a watched pot wasn't true. She didn't mind Vision but she was not used to company in the middle of the night. She flushed when she remembered her attire, the small shorts and unruly hair. 

Vision, after a pause, replied. "I simply didn't wish to startle whoever was in the kitchen; I was waiting for an opportune time to enter." He approached the stone island, sitting in the chair across from her at the sink. When Wanda didn't respond, Vision started again, seeming to think over his next question. "I'm still learning," he said, wistful, his hands settling in front of him, "how to appear to be normal, to act human. Do you find it difficult to stay out of the others' minds?" He must have sensed her earlier search. This made her flush again. He would be the only person who was aware of her presence.

Wanda eyed the kettle, urging it to whistle. She missed the easy conversation with Pietro, the companionable silence that came with two decades' worth of proximity.

"No, I don't find it difficult," she lied. Well, it wasn't entirely a lie, she corrected in her head. When she first joined the Avengers, her grief made it difficult to tune out the live-wire cacophony of their minds. She resorted to removing herself from them as much as she could. Slowly, as she compartmentalized her anguish, she was able to tune out their thoughts, one by one. She never had this struggle with Vision. If anything, when everyone else's mind seemed to be at a volume of 10, his was a 1. The few times she'd tentatively listened for him it had taken a large effort on her part. She'd chalked it up to him being an android, not fully human. Now she considered him again, sitting there. Maybe there was more to it than that. 

Wanda eyed him curiously. He was no longer dressed in his usual blue suit but instead was wearing a simple sweater and dark khakis. Wanda thought the change must be him trying to appear normal, human. Not exactly an outfit for sleeping, though. This made her wonder. "Do you not sleep?"

Vision returned her gaze with his neutral expression, a practiced passive face that Wanda wasn't sure how to interpret. 

"Yes, I do sleep, though it would seem not as much as the average human. Yet, I could almost say the same of you, Miss Maximoff. Do you not require the recommended 8 hours each night?" he asked, innocently. 

Wanda paused, and before she could respond the kettle whined. She promptly turned to remove it from the heat. She readied her cup and, knowing that Vision rarely ate, asked out of politeness, "Would you like some tea?"

Vision nodded and Wanda readied a second cup. She carried both steaming mugs to the granite island, then after retrieving spoons and sugar, sat next to Vision.

Wanda spooned a small dip of sugar into her tea, absently stirring the already sweet drink. The aromatic steam calmed her, releasing the tension in her shoulders, her frustration with Vision's approach fading.

Vision looked at her, politely expectant. Ah, yes, she hadn't answered his question. "Do you dream, Vision?" she asked, knowing it's against the rules to answer a question with a question. Suddenly she became annoyed with herself: she was posing questions to him that she herself didn't like, questions that reminded the recipient how different they are, alien, removed. 

"Yes, I do dream. Though," he paused, brows furrowed, "I fail to see how my dreams prevent you from sleeping." 

Wanda stirred her cup again, then, leaving in the spoon, took a hesitant sip, not wanting to scald her tongue. Vision stole a cue from her, spooning sugar into his tea and stirring. It dawned on Wanda that he probably never had tea before. The idea of him sharing a first experience with her, though small, eased something within her. 

With a resolute sigh, she opted for honesty. "When I sleep, I dream. The dreams change but it's always the same in the end: I'm falling, with brick and rubble and glass, I'm falling. And I see Pietro's face... Sometimes above me, looking down, sometimes below me..." she trailed off. 

Wanda was fixed on the memory of Pietro's face. She felt the sting of tears threaten to leave her eyes. As she fought not to embarrass herself, she noticed a shift in Vision's expression. He leaned forward, placing his hand over hers on the cold stone island, a gesture intended to be reassuring.

Vision's long fingers on top of hers felt warm, electric... Jarring after having not been touched in months. She sharply inhaled, brought back from her reverie. Vision's face held nothing but sincere compassion, lacking the usual trace of pity she'd noted on others. 

Vision removed his fingers and returned his attention to stirring his tea. Wanda observed Vision's face again under the pale kitchen lighting. It had been a long time since she had seen it up close; though she saw him daily, he was usually at a distance. His skin was smooth, a pleasant shade of red, though lined with barely visible intricacies. His nose was classical, masculine, complementing the line of his jaw and the fullness of his lips. She met his inquisitive eyes after lingering too long at those lips. His eyes remained a cerulean blue: deep, intense, yet kind, as she'd remembered. She flushed with embarrassment; her insomnia had made her strange and awkward. To end the tense silence, she asked, "What do you dream of?"

Vision looked away and smiled. She noted that it did not touch his eyes, appearing instead to be a nervous smile, one born of manners. Internally she cringed at herself again. Pietro was the one who was good at conversing, his personality inviting and easy. She had always been quiet, reserved, more inclined to take in the scenery than talk about it. Perhaps reading minds had made her this way--there isn't much mystery left when one sees a person's thoughts played out like a film.

"Like most newborns, I dream of my experiences, day to day routine. Which lends itself to many dreams about training." There he paused and gave a slight chuckle. She smiled with him, knowing just how routine training had become. "Sometimes," he continued, "I dream about the stars, the planets, the vastness of the universe." He appeared distant, recalling those dreams, as if questioning the universe again. 

Wanda thought of the stars and wondered if she could see them through the large window off the kitchen. To her surprise, she saw the sun on the horizon, staining the sky orange and plum. She swallowed down her now chilled tea and stood. She offered to take Vision's cup, mostly empty, but he insisted on cleaning the dishes. 

"The sun is up, it must be nearly 5 in the morning," she groaned, tired. She knew the team would be up in an hour, their noisy banter filling the halls. Vision looked at her from the sink, face neutral. Wanda continued, "Speaking of training, I should get ready. Thank you for keeping me company." She half smiled, hoping next time he wouldn't scare her in the middle of the night.

"I enjoyed our conversation," Vision replied simply. "See you again at training." Wanda thought she caught him smirking as she trailed back to her room.


	2. Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prior events, from Vision's perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter! Each will alternate between perspectives I think. Again, any and all input is appreciated. :) thanks for reading!

Nights in the Avengers' compound were quiet. If Vision had been less comfortable with his solitude, he may have even said they were lonely. But, as it were, he liked the stillness. It was his time with his thoughts, uninterrupted by the noise of his teammates, the tests of combat, the trials of humanity.

Vision stood under the warm torrent of water, the specialized shower head drizzling like a soft spring rain. He found that he was very particular about the temperature, seeking out the perfect balance of warm but not too hot. He liked the feel of the droplets hitting his skin, the way they ran down in small streams along his chest, meeting in rivers at his pelvis.

He lingered there, beneath the stream, long after he felt clean. Sometimes he would place his palms against the smooth tiles, enjoying the contrast between the warm water and the chill of the stones. Tonight, however, he examined his hands: the slight pruning of his fingers, the way the droplets warped the proportions of his vermillion skin.

He knew his teammates did not consider him human, that they classified him as _other_ , _different_. He couldn't blame them, even he didn't know how to categorize himself. Vision wondered at himself, with water-lodged fingers, the _ping-ping-ping_ of spray ricocheting from his vibranium filigree. Not quite machine, not quite man. Perhaps _different_ was fitting.

Not wishing to continue that train of thought, Vision turned off the faucet and reached for his towel. The cotton fibers were downy, absorbing the water with ease. Vision was especially fond of how light his skin felt after the shower's hot steam, open and receptive to the air of his room.

Absently hovering his way to the window (the cool tiles against his feet decidedly uncomfortable), Vision paused a moment, admiring the stars. Like all of humanity before him, he looked up to the expanse of sky, the lights slowly sparkling, in awe of his place in the universe. Vision felt small in comparison, the vastness overwhelming, intoxicating. And in that feeling, he decided, he was human: alone, insignificant, but an infant among the great sweep of time.

Vision had a routine. Each night, when his teammates were closed within their quarters, he would quietly make his way to the lower living area. Often he read the books from the small collection the compound had to offer, but from time to time he watched the television. He was engrossed with the dynamics between characters, the complexities of their relationships. When a program would end, Vision would reflect on what he'd seen. He'd wondered what it must be like to have a family, close friends, even a romantic interest. But those, he resolved, were not made for him, as he was _other_ , _different_. Not human enough, not machine enough, he concluded, unable to identify the emotion coloring the thought.

On this particular night, Vision had opted to read an old hardcover book, one that had gone seemingly untouched. With the lights low and his legs rested comfortably along the length of the couch, Vision lost himself in the world of the story's fictional characters. That is, until he heard a faint thud, the sound of a closing cupboard in the kitchen above him. Vision glanced at the clock on the wall, momentarily second-guessing himself. 3:42. _Strange_.

Curiosity drove Vision to rise, phasing through the floor, returning to his solid state in a hallway just outside the kitchen. He heard the faucet start, noting that whoever was utilizing the kitchen at this hour would have their back turned to him. He shifted, hovering uncomfortably, deciding to wait until the faucet stopped to enter as to not startle the kitchen's occupant.

Yet the water ran. And, standing there, he felt something press against his mind, a feeling of--nervousness? fear?--filtering through. Perturbed, Vision decided to cross the threshold into the kitchen's light to find the source of this odd sensation.

As quickly as it had come, the sensation in his mind faded. There, as he predicted, was someone by the sink. However, he couldn't have predicted it would be Miss Maximoff, defensive, hands glowing a warning red.

Vision saw Wanda take in a sharp breath, and upon her recognition of him, her features faded from alarm to something resembling irritation. The electric spark of her fingers ebbed, and she turned to resume her task at the sink, leaving her back to him.

"Forgive me, Miss Maximoff," Vision said, feeling unsettled that he had upset her to such an extent. He thought he sensed tension in the air, recalling the irritation that had crossed her face.

Vision noted the difference in her appearance: her hair lifted from her neck, exposing the soft slope of her creamy skin. Her legs were bare, too, except for the silky black material that hung loosely at her thighs.

Before Vision could determine why this change of her attire stood out to him, Wanda tersely said, "You know, it's rude to just sneak up on people like that." Was that her smile he detected on the window's reflection? Vision felt unable to keep up with her mercurial moods.

Wanda set about boiling water for tea (ah, that's what she'd been doing in the kitchen at this hour), leaving her back to him, quiet.

Vision wanted to explain himself, worried his approach may interpreted as rude. "I simply didn't wish to startle whoever was in the kitchen; I was waiting for an opportune time to enter." A wish that had failed.

He settled on a tall black stool at the granite island center of the kitchen. The light bounced off the specks of white crystal in the gray stone, and Vision was momentarily distracted by how much this resembled the nighttime lights of New York City. He thought of the day of his birth, the apprehension he had seen etched on Wanda's face. "I looked into your mind...," she had said, "and saw annihilation." Vision focused back to the feeling in his mind moments ago, the fear that sent a spike of heat down his spine. He wasn't the only one not entirely human, _different_ , changed by the stone embedded in his skin.

"I'm still learning how to appear to be normal, to act human." Would he ever learn? Was he capable? How had she managed? "Do you find it difficult to stay out of the others' minds?"

Wanda appeared to reflect on his question a moment before answering. "No, I don't find it difficult," her slight accent accentuating the sound of her ds. _Of course_ , he thought, feeling the strange emotion he'd felt earlier, the limbo between man and machine.

Vision felt Wanda's gaze upon him and noticed she was eyeing his chest. Perhaps it was his sweater? His face warmed, feeling self conscious. Was the clothing he'd chosen inappropriate? Had he missed another human subtlety?

Before he could account for her appraisal, she asked, "Do you not sleep?"  
Of course he slept, as all living organisms do. He was made of the same carbon as she. Well, mostly, besides the vibranium sheaths scattered about his body. "Yes, I do sleep, though it would seem not as much as the average human. Yet, I could almost say the same of you, Miss Maximoff. Do you not require the recommended 8 hours each night?" He recalled that she was awake at an odd hour for a human. He noticed then that she was bare of the makeup that normally darkened her lashes, and he thought he saw a trace of purple beneath her eyes. She was tired. Why didn't she sleep?

Wanda seemed to hesitate, regarding Vision with a wary expression. Then, as she moved her mouth to form her reply, the kettle whistled, reminding them both if its presence.

Wanda attended her cup. From her reflection against the glass pane Vision could see a crease form between her brows, as if she were weighing a question. Looking over her shoulder she asked, "Would you like some tea?"

With a nod, Vision accepted. He hadn't had tea before, though he read of it often. It didn't appear to be the staple beverage amongst Americans, evidenced by the number of teammates that opted for coffee each morning.

Wanda balanced both cups to the island, sliding his in front of him before padding away to return with a dish of sugar and small spoons. Vision wasn't aware that tea required such extensively cutlery.

Vision watched as Wanda delicately dipped her small spoon into the sugar, gently shaking off the excess before plunging the spoon into her cup. Her fingers were long and thin, stirring absently with a grace that came from years of practice. Vision retuned his eyes to her face, wondering if she'd forgotten his question. Was she ignoring it intentionally? He wondered if it would be rude to ask again. As if reading his mind, she spoke. "Do you dream, Vision?" Again, those lilting ds.

Vision thought back to his last dream nearly a week ago. Dreams confused him: they were not real, yet they existed, a whole other reality within the mind.

"Yes, I do dream. Though," he paused, unable to see the relevance, "I fail to see how my dreams prevent you from sleeping."

Wanda resumed stirring her tea. The steam no longer rising from the cup, she raised it to her face and took a light sip. Vision assumed the tea must be "ready" now, and followed Wanda's lead, adding sugar and stiring, though feeling unsure of the process.

Wanda sighed and Vision's eyes rose to meet her face. "When I sleep, I dream," she said, tone somber. "The dreams change but it's always the same in the end: I'm falling, with brick and rubble and glass, I'm falling. And I see Pietro's face..." A sadness touched her eyes. "Sometimes above me, looking down, sometimes below me..." She offered no more.

Her eyes glossed over, seeing something that was but was not, locked on to that alternate reality. Vision felt uncomfortable, the pain in Wanda's face making his stomach uneasy. He had seen his teammates embrace one another, the physicality seeming to ease the aches they experienced. Perhaps, Vision thought, it might be beneficial in this scenario, too.

Experimentally, Vision reached forward, carefully cupping his fingers around hers. She felt hot, he noted with surprise, definitely hotter than the 98.6 Fahrenheit of the average human. He liked the smoothness of her fingers beneathe his, the texture of her delicate rings against his skin.

Wanda made a small gasp. At her deep breath, Vision removed his fingers, unsure if he'd committed a social faux pas. Yet he thought he saw her features soften, relax. In an attempt to be casual, Vision tasted his tea. Very sweet, he noted, wondering if all tea was meant to taste so sugary. He noticed the hint of lavender, enjoyed the earthy chamomile. He decided he liked this tea. And he liked his unusual company--the company that, at present, was staring intently at his mouth.

Her gaze made him feel vulnerable, something akin to raw. It stirred a feeling in his stomach he couldn't name, a feeling tinged with yearning, desire. Vision searched Wanda's face for a hint of what she was thinking, why her eyes lingered at his mouth.

Blinking, she looked up at his eyes. The kitchen lights caught the rims of her irises, he noticed, softening the gray there to blue. Wanda's eyes had depth, clarity--striking against the alabaster of her skin. The skin that, as he observed, had blossomed into shades of pink.

"What do you dream of?" Wanda asked, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. Again, she was mercurial, labile. Vision was fairly certain he didn't struggle conversing with his other teammates this much. He made a mental note to assess the source of his gaucheness later.

Vision again thought back to a week ago, the sleep that claimed him, that doorway to the dream dimension. "Like most newborns," he explained, "I dream of my experiences, day to day routine. Which lends itself to many dreams about training." Vision recognized the importance of their training but the daily sessions had become tedious, dull. "Sometimes," he continued, "I dream about the stars, the planets, the vastness of the universe." He recognized that feeling again, that human wonderment at the sheer improbability of it all.

Wanda's gaze shifted to the window, seemingly surprised at what she found there. Finishing her tea, she stood from her chair. Vision watched her stretch, a peek of midriff showing as she raised her arms, seemingly stiff from sitting. She reached for his cup but he stopped her. She had been a gracious host, the least he could do was tidy the dishes. Vision retrieved the mugs and spoons and made for the sink. Over the running water he heard Wanda comment, "The sun is up, it must be nearly 5 in the morning." Indeed. It was 4:57. Vision was unsure of why this should be concerning to her. Perhaps she required more sleep.

"Speaking of training," she referenced, "I should get ready. Thank you for keeping me company." Wanda smiled easily. Vision thought that she appeared lighter, less tense. Perhaps it was his company, perhaps it was the tea. He couldn't be sure, though he felt a hope that it was the former.

"I enjoyed our conversation," Vision replied, making a mental checklist of the words he'd have to later analyze. He wasn't sure why images of the curve of her neck, the flesh of her stomach continued to flash unbidden in his mind. He added that to the list as well. Maybe he could solve some of the puzzle before seeing her next. It was rare that he left a conversation having more questions than when he'd entered.

"See you again at training," he said in goodbye, smiling at the thought of talking to her again so soon.


	3. 3. Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanda's perspective. Getting more comfortable with vision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Building building building. Hoping to get to some smut soon

Wanda stood in her room, back pressed against her door, chagrin settling on her from the morning's conversation. It had been so long since she felt anything besides anger and emptiness but _embarrassment_ was not the feeling she hoped to experience when she resurfaced. She stopped at that thought. Had she resurfaced? She tested the weight of the emotions in her mind, sensing a change. For the first time since Pietro was at her side she felt a spark of hope. Her natural cynicism threatened to creep in, snuff it out, but she reflexively protected it. It was all she had. It was all she'd had in months.

With a yawn, tired both physically and now mentally, Wanda headed to her bathroom. Pausing at her mirror, she eyed her hair, the matted nest atop her head. She felt a mild embarrassment--ah yes, more of that--at her disheveled appearance in front of company. Untying her curls, they dropped down in a wild curtain along her shoulders. She gathered them, section by section, forming a loose braid down her back.

Wanda stepped out of her nightmare-laden pajamas, leaving them pooled darkly on her floor. She pulled on the day's training outfit: a loose red tee and dark gray pants. Her family had not been wealthy and Hydra had required shapeless uniforms, developing Wanda's predisposition for simple clothes.

She sat on her bed, fishing out her combat boots from underneath. Ready for practice, she made her way to the large training hall.

Training had been exhausting. Upon the third time she found herself winded on her back she nearly gave up. Steve had insisted she work on her hand-to-hand skill, worried that she relied too heavily on her unpredictable power. While she didn't disagree, Wanda was more concerned about learning to control said power. She maintained small daily practices, moving little objects about her room or closing the fridge behind her, but she wanted bigger, real world experience.

Staring upward at the ceiling, she saw Rhodes' approach, his smirk smug even when upside down. Wordlessly, he offered her his hand, pulling her back up to her feet. As Wanda geared up for another round she heard Steve call it a day. Wanda was grateful, the ache in her tailbone had been making itself quite known.

Like kids dismissed from class, the group poured out of the hall, sweaty but happily chattering. Wanda heard that soft hum from the early morning, the sound of Vision gliding rather than walking. He was next to her, quiet, eyes fixed on something ahead of them. Wanda was very aware of his presence, the side of her body closest to him seemed to thrum with electricity. She wasn't sure if it was the endorphins of the workout or some factor she hadn't yet named but she felt herself smiling an easy smile.

Vision tilted his head to her then. "Did I miss something, Miss Maximoff?" his voice sounding amusedly confused.

This only made her grin bigger. "No, nothing in particular. Maybe the lack of sleep is making me a little giddy," she said playfully.

This knowledge made Vision's brows crease with concern. "You really should try to get more rest, Miss Maximoff." They were near the hall that turned off to her room. Wanda paused a moment, looking at Vision directly. His training uniform, a tight teal blue, set off his eyes, making his gaze appear more wide-eyed and innocent. She had to tilt her head up to see his face, his height considerably more than hers, even when he wasn't easily hovering three inches above the tiled floor. He searched over her features, a trace of concern still lingering on his brow.

"'Miss Maximoff'," Wanda said, "that's so formal. Please, just call me Wanda."

He cast his eyes down, faintly smiling. "Of course," he assured her. Wanda's eyes followed his gaze downward, paying attention to the way his broad shoulders trailed to his chest.

She caught herself distracted.  
"So... I'll see you at lunch?" She asked, half hopeful to have his company, half worried she was the one sounding too formal now.

Vision gave a light nod, his acquiescence sending small thrill down her back.

"See you then." Wanda turned down her hall, glimpsing back to see Vision phasing through the walls. She rolled her eyes. So much for working on appearing human.

Wanda made her way to her room, looking forward to a shower. In the bathroom, she turned on the faucet; the small room filled with steam as the water quickly warmed. Wanda disrobed and shook loose her braid, easing into the hot stream. She lightly shampooed her hair and, as she'd promised herself, cracked open the jar of deep conditioner. The product smelled earthy, a floral note she couldn't place. She saturated the tangles, using her fingers as a comb.

While waiting for the conditioner to do its job, she thought of Vision: the way his full lips spoke her name, the way his gentle touch sent a spark along her skin, the color of his eyes against the crimson of his face. Her thoughts felt disjointed, hazy from her fatigue, leaving her jumping from emotion to emotion: yearning, desire, anticipation. And then fear--fear of what it all meant. Vision was so _new_ , so naive, trusting and innocent. Amorous thoughts of him made her feel guilty, like she would tarnish all the things that made him good, like a siren beckoning him to distraction, destruction. Besides, she wasn't even sure just how far his humanity reached, if he was capable of anything beyond platonic feelings.

Wanda felt a prickling of shame at her own inexperience as well. Had she wanted to pursue a romantic relationship (though she firmly reminded herself that she _did_ _not_ ), she would have no idea where to begin. In many ways, Wanda had yet to live, to take part in the world in a normal way. While people went to school and on dates, she was locked away, trying to survive, cultivating her power. Wanda was too consumed by anger and vengeance to concern herself much with the folly of boys. But...she had been with a man once, when he was still a boy and she a girl. They were 15 and it had been her idea. It hadn't been romantic and she was left feeling indifferent about the subject as a whole. But that was then, and her anger at Stark had since faded, giving way to a chasm of feelings long since locked away.

Abruptly she forced the thoughts of Vision out of her head. They had shared tea, a perfectly innocent thing and she was adding nuances that were not there. She had always been prone to overthinking everything. With a sigh, she rinsed her hair and eased out of the shower. The surge in emotions overwhelmed her, and not for the first time today, she longed for Pietro's voice, his advice and reassurance. He would have such an easier time adjusting to all these things: a new country, a new team, living with people who cared.

Drying her hair, Wanda opened her closet. She put on her simple black underwear and a black tank top with a built in bra. She never was one for lace and fuss. She grabbed some pants and a top from her closet, tossing them on the small chair in the corner. With her brush in hand, she sat on her disheveled bed, combing her damp waves. Finished, she let herself fall back onto the mattress, arms out to her sides, her hair fanned around her face. She guided the brush from her now scarlet hand, twirling and dancing it through the air back to its place. She lied there a moment, staring at the ceiling, enjoying the perfume of her now tangle free curls. Slowly she closed her eyes, _just for a moment_ , and then she was claimed by sleep, her feet still dangling from the edge of her bed.


	4. Steam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vision's perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! I will be trying to update this story!  
> As always, any feedback or grammatical corrections welcome. :)

Vision listened to the sound of Wanda's departure fade as he dried the dishes from their morning tea. Shortly his teammates would emerge from their rooms, make their coffee, and talk of their plans for the day over breakfast. While Vision was usually happy to partake in the playful conversations of the morning, today he was more interested in deciphering the earlier exchange with Wanda.

Vision heard the echoes of Tony's voice singing down the hall and decided it was his cue to phase through the floor, returning to the lower living area where no one was likely to disturb him until after breakfast. Vision stood beside the massive window, taking in the scenery before him: the sun rising, the autumnal trees juxtaposed against the sherbet sky. Long, thin clouds lined the horizon and Vision was reminded of the deep and swirling gray of Wanda's eyes. He wasn't sure what to make of their conversation. He wasn't sure why he found the slope of her neck alluring, why the memory of her lean thighs stirred something in him he didn't recognize.

He had touched her once before; in fact, she had been the first person he held, cradling her against his chest as the world tumbled around them. Vision remembered the experience vividly. His stomach clenched in unease as he recalled Wanda's expression as he'd saved her: defeated, limp, broken. It was not how he imagined his first embrace. The memory did not awaken in him the feelings that the simple brush of her fingers had today. He imagined her face would always retain that etch of sadness but Wanda did not appear broken to him any longer. She stood taller, her smile vibrant and her body less tense. 

Vision saw the red glint of his face on the glass, the emerald of his sweater emphasizing his skin's shade, reminding him he was _different_. He considered the stories he read, the shows he watched, the relationships he had seen. He assumed he was to be removed from that world, his otherness rendering him incompatible with the dynamics of intimacy. Vision felt something he accounted as hope: he was different, but so was she, and in many ways this made them more alike than not. Within him, that hope sparked like flame upon brush, setting a fire of  _want_  throughout his being. He let the feeling wash over him, surprised by its intensity, its passion. The feeling was consuming, reckless: it was so very human, and the thought made him smile. 

And as quickly as it came, that smile faded. He knew humans were fickle creatures. Could she possibly feel for him the way he felt for her? And _what_ exactly was it he felt for her? He didn't know how to name this _want_ , how to give shape to its meaning. Vision caught himself pacing. The whirlwind of emotions left him uncharacteristically unsettled. Was this what it was to be human, then? Full of self-doubt, anxious for affirmations and reassurance? Lips pursed, Vision tried to untangle the strings of thought that had coiled in his mind. 

Steve's head poked over the railing of the stairway, pulling Vision from his reverie. "Ready for training?" the captain asked, his voice serious but hinting of boyish playfulness. 

"Of course," Vision replied, noting that Steve seemed to regard him with a look of guarded curiosity before turning back up the stairs. 

Vision sighed. Despite his effort, he made no headway in understanding his feelings or Wanda's esteem for him. He made his way to the training hall, absently phasing through wall after wall, concrete after metal after plaster. 

Over the months Vision had become less involved in the trainings, acting more as sentinel than soldier. He circulated above his paired teammates, watching as each calculated their moves, attacks, and counter-attacks. Rarely did he need to become involved, and rarely still when in the controlled environment of the hall. 

Vision paid particular attention to Wanda, watching her block the advances of Rhodes until the War Machine found his mark, leveling her upon the ground. Vision was torn: it was not within his parameters to get involved in her training, but seeing her splayed on the ground below was painful. He longed to scoop her up into his arms again, feel her head against his chest and smell the soft scent of her hair. There he could protect her, shield her from the blows of training, of fighting, of the world. 

A whirling sound caught Vision's attention, the _whizzing_ increasing as it drew near. He recognized the pitch of the metal slicing the air, reflexively calculating the rate at which Steve's shield was careening toward him. Vision caught it, half amused at Steve's attempt to take him by surprise. 

Down below, Vision saw the captain looking up at him, Steve's face a smirk. Vision smiled in response.

"One day it'll happen--I'll catch you off guard," Steve shouted from below.

It was Vision's turn to smirk. "I encourage you to continue trying, Mr. Rogers, as it appears to be good practice...for you." Vision tossed the shield down to Steve, and with a laugh, Steve returned to his training.

Time passed and Vision continued to discreetly watch Wanda from a distance, careful not to stare. That was the third time she'd ended up on the ground. Vision winced in sympathy. Wanda was fierce, a powerful force--even he wasn't sure of the extent of her powers--but she was also soft, untrained, young in many ways. Before Vision could find an excuse to intervene, Steve announced the end of the day's training. Vision was grateful, unsure how much longer he could play bystander. 

Gradually he glided downward until he was a mere few inches above the wooden planks of the floor. Vision and his teammates made for the door, each headed to their room to shower and regroup for lunch. Vision found himself next to Wanda, noting the slight stiffness in her gait: training had been hard on her today. He felt himself frown at thought of her being in pain. 

Then he noticed her smiling. Certainly she wasn't that much of a masochist? Curiosity won, Vision had to know what made that smile grace her face. "Did I miss something, Miss Maximoff?" It wouldn't be the first time he had failed to notice something that his teammates found amusing.

"No, nothing in particular." Her smile widened. "Maybe the lack of sleep is making me a little giddy." Vision studied her face again. She was flushed from her practice with Rhodes, the blush emphasizing her cheeks and the sweat highlighting her brow. 

Vision was concerned again with her well-being; she ought to sleep like a normal human. "You really should try to get more rest, Miss Maximoff," he voiced before he consciously gave himself permission to. This surprised and confused him.

He noted that Wanda had stopped walking, her body unconsciously shifted toward him. She was looking at him, appraising something he couldn't discern. Vision noticed her lift her chin, allowing her to look him in the eye. 

Then she tilted her head, as if an idea suddenly came to her. "'Miss Maximoff'," she quoted him. "That's so formal. Please, just call me Wanda." She absently swat the air, as if to brush off the dust from his antiquated etiquette.   
    
The intimacy of her request set off that _want_  in him again, surging his heart with hope. He couldn't help but smile. "Of course," he answered. Of course. Anything she asked, he would submit. 

"So... I'll see you at lunch?" Wanda asked. Again, that hope flooded him. She wished to see him, to claim his time. Perhaps her preference for him was more clear than he initially thought. At the very least she seemed to want his company. He nearly forgot to respond he was so lost in that hope, giving a nod before he was lost again. 

"See you then." Wanda hastily turned and headed down the hall. The smile hadn't left Vision's face. He was something akin to elated, he decided, as he phased toward the lower living area again. 

  
Alone and lounging on the sofa, Vision clicked on the TV. He was too distracted to focus on his book, instead opting for the noise of the television to drown out his scattered thoughts. What would he talk to her about during lunch? Would she wear her hair up again, exposing that soft skin behind her ears? Would she find his company awkward, electing to socialize with their teammates over him? The last thought upset him: it would be painful to watch her from afar, never asking what made her smile.

Vision heard the tell-tale clanking of dishes above, signaling the start of lunch. The smell of Indian takeout wafted down the stairs. Vision turned off the TV and made a point to walk up the steps, entering on the easy conversations of his teammates. 

Natasha ate quietly, observing her peers with passive interest. Stark spoke loudly, always the center of attention, while Rhodes and Rogers quipped in on occasion. Vision scanned the room but there was no Wanda. 

A sense of fear welled in his stomach: perhaps she wasn't interested in him after all. Hiding his disappointment, Vision sat amongst the Avengers, adding to the conversation when needed. His mind was elsewhere, thinking of Wanda and inferring the reasons for her absence. 

Lunch passed and still she did not show. Vision knew she could be reclusive but she was generally present at mealtimes. The others did not seem concerned, he noted, unlike him, who was admittedly preoccupied with her whereabouts. 

It dawned on him then that he could look for her, and once the knowledge of that possibility set in his mind he could not be rid of it, the impulse too strong to resist. Quietly he removed himself from his teammates, who lingered in conversation around the table. 

Gingerly he phased through the building until he was at her hall, nearing her door. There Vision stood, paralyzed in uncertainty outside her room. He didn't hear any noise from inside. Had she left? Again, that would be unlike her. Where would she go? 

Uncertainty gave way to curiosity, and Vision decided to take a peek into her room. Hesitantly he passed through her door, unsure of what he expected to find. Certainly he was not prepared for what lie in front of him: Wanda against her bed, dreaming softly, her hair a dark halo against her face. And, with a hot rush, Vision noticed she was clad in her undergarments, the black of her panties stark against her pale skin. Her breathing was relaxed, easy in her nightmare-free sleep. Vision's eyes lingered at the rise and fall of her chest, noticing the way the fabric of her shirt stretched against her breathing.

Vision saw Wanda's feet dangling from her mattress. He paused, calculating the level of discomfort such a position could cause. The option arose in his mind: he could lift her legs, lie them gently along the bed, potentially saving her from the pins and needles that were sure to come. 

Vision stood there a moment, unsure what to do next: leave or move her. The thought of touching her smooth legs, the feel of her skin against his, won him over. Slowly he glided to her--as if moving quickly would wake her and he'd be found out--until he stood beside her bed. Vision stared at her face, peaceful in sleep, the wariness faded from her brow. Her hair lay in waves, a crown of auburn curls tumbling amidst the sheets. He leaned forward, gently lifting Wanda's legs from behind her knees, angling them upward onto the mattress. Her skin was as hot as he'd remembered, burning even when she slept. 

He removed his hands, letting his fingers sweep along her toned calves as he pulled away. That _want_  gnawed at him, begging him to submerge himself in the sensation of feeling her. Vision felt embarrassment at his desire, embarrassment at feeling overtaken by something as simple as touching a woman's legs. But she wasn't just any woman, and these weren't just any touches.

Vision eased away from Wanda, taking care not to rouse her from sleep. He backed up to her door, selfishly taking in the sight of her one last time--the length of her thighs, her curve of her hips above her panties--before he forced himself from her room.

In a rush of panic, adrenalin, and desire, Vision made his way to his room, moving quickly through walls and floors and glass. Once there, he released a heavy breath. What if he had been caught? How would have explained himself? When matters involved Wanda he was becoming irrational, illogical. He hadn't known he was capable of such flawed reasoning, and for a moment he hated it, the feeling of his thoughts being out of control, governed by waves of emotional impulses. How did humans accomplish anything if this was the way their minds worked?

Vision stood motionless in his room, looking toward the window but not seeing. He let his body's synthetic hormones settle, the spike leaving him feeling tired, drained. Once he felt in control of himself again, he sat on his bed, willing his mind to think of anything other than the burn of her skin beneath his fingers, the ache in stomach that called for  _more_. His breathing slowed and his thoughts settled to their calm patterns of clarity. Surely he was over-reacting, he chided himself. The only thing he knew for certain was that he couldn't continue to be subject to his emotional impulses. At best it was foolish and at worst it was dangerous. He thought again of his preoccupation with Wanda during practice. What would happen during a real battle? Who would suffer because of his distraction? Shame burned at his cheeks. With a sigh, Vision resolved to give this obsession no more thought. It wasn't normal, he reprimanded himself. Vision stood and made to join his teammates, stubbing out that flame of hope with a determined impartiality. 


	5. Dusk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanda apologizes for missing lunch.  
> Also, smut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, any errors let me know (sometimes there are copy errors!). My first time writing smut lol  
> Missing anything? Too weird? Too boring? Let me know!

Unevenly shorn grass raked against her skin like dull blades, leaving small welts of irritation in their wake. If Wanda could see them in the dark, she was sure there would be pink dots lining her ankles, neck, and the bit of hips that had escaped the cover of her bulky sweatshirt. Instead, the night was dark and clear: the city lights shone like a beacon in the distance. The stars were bright, perforating the sky in a milky, mesmerizing swirl.

Occasionally, when her nightmares were particularly bad and not even tea could soothe her nerves, Wanda made her way outside to lie along the grass and stare at the cosmos. It made her feel small and that smallness was an escape: it was easy to keep perspective, to remember the insignificance of her own world, when she thought of it while staring upward. Her powers were nothing against the unyielding beat of time, the knowledge that the shine of the stars she saw now was likely the last echo of a once great nova. The glow of her hand couldn't compare to a universe of ceaseless change, the ebb and flow of electrons, the fluid nature of creation and destruction.

Normally the depths of the sky distracted her, allowing an emotional realignment, sorting her thoughts like designing constellations. The autumn air was unseasonably warm, making the leaves cling to branches, desperate for that last bit of sun. Tonight, however, a cold crept in with the moon, biting her cheeks and stinging her eyes. Wanda drew the hood up around her face, giving the drawstrings a half-hearted pull. She should have brought a blanket, she thought grumpily. She wasn't ready to return inside, her thoughts were still too jumbled. The earlier conversation with Vision had left her confused, a livewire of uncertainty and desire tangling along her nerves and pooling in her stomach.

A wave of guilt crashed over her again: she promised him lunch, then she slept through it. And she slept through dinner, too. She couldn't remember the last time she slept so soundly. Wasn't she wishing for that deep nothingness of sleep just this morning? She sneered at the irony--the one time she made plans _would_ be the one time she slept without the nightmares choking her awake.

Was he upset with her? She thought of his patient face, waiting. Did she want him to be at least a little upset when he didn't see her amongst those settled in the gray kitchen? She caught herself kneading her lip, an annoying habit when she was anxious. Did she feel anxious? She brought herself to her elbows, the grass splayed between her fingers. She considered the tension running through her, assessed the ball of energy gathered in her stomach. It wasn't like her to not follow through on a promise, no matter how small. Surely that was what was bothering her--missing lunch wasn't about Vision--it was about the way it soured her character. Wanda was punctual, reliable. Wanda certainly wasn't one to fall asleep in the middle of the day.

And with this thought, she shoved her way up and was moving back to the compound. She owed Vision an apology. She was determined to not let him think poorly of her, to not let him think she was undependable. She halted for a moment--what time was it? Was he asleep? She tried to weigh the odds with the little information he'd given--he mentioned dreaming but not much else about his routine. There was no harm, she reasoned, in approaching his door to see if he was awake. She could always check before knocking, let the tendrils of her mind spill across his room... and what would she find there? Would his mind resonate with the same jarring otherness as it had when she last accidentally spied on him? She found herself walking, her anxious body full of its own volition.

***

The hall was dark and quiet as Wanda made her way to Vision's room, the soft padding of her feet the only sound. From a distance she could see a faint amber glow along the rectangle of his door. Not the room's main light, she noted, but maybe a lamp? She quieted her breath as she approached his room, mentally reeling in her mind's search for another's voice. The door was just slightly ajar, like it hadn't quite latched when closed, and she was right--the glow of a lamp poured from its cracks. Wanda stood inside the frame, listening for a sound to indicate if Vision was awake, wondering if she should knock.

"Oh!" Wanda mumbled in surprise when the door suddenly swung inward. She squinted, adjusting to the comparative brightness of the room. There he stood, clad in light linen pants, the heat from his shower still eminating from his dewy skin. She could smell him, the faint hint of soap mixing with steam. His hand remained on the door's handle, his face an expectant neutral; she thought she saw him shift toward her, though only slightly.

"Umm," she half whispered, looking down, away from his body. It would be easy to stare, to lose focus when observing the toned lines of his stomach, the way a few stray droplets clung to his collarbone. Hadn't she come to clarify her character? And here she was, adding qualifiers like _awkward_ and _inarticulate_ instead of rectifying herself. She cleared her throat and squared her shoulders, resolved to make her apology known.

"I'm sorry," she began, gazing up to look him in the eye. His expression was reserved, brows pulled together, his gaze drifting from her mouth to her eyes as she began speaking.

"I fell asleep..." she continued, his eyes drifting back to her mouth again, distracting her. His expression softened, his lips turning up into a slight smile.

"Miss..." he began before catching himself, as though he, too, were distracted. "Wanda," he smiled, his eyes meeting hers. "I'm glad to hear you took my advice and got some rest." She stared at him for a moment before a small laugh bubbled up within her. This was him being _funny_. His smile widened. She rolled her eyes, teasingly exasperated by his dry joke. She crossed her arms, noting that his hand still held the door knob, a gesture that was neither inviting or unwelcoming. He seemed to follow her train of thought.

"Please, come in," he offered, pulling the door aside and holding a hand out, as if he were maître d' to his small room. Wanda spotted the desk chair, opting for that over a spot on his well-made bed.

The door clicked closed and Vision stood, as if unsure, for a moment before taking a seat on the edge of his bed.

They sat there for a moment, the quiet tense, not quite looking at one another. Wanda peered around the tidy room, noting the lack of personal artifacts. A silver laptop lie closed on the desk next to the simple lamp. "What time is it?" she wondered aloud, half because there was no clock and half because she wished to break the silence.

"1:14 AM," Vision answered, now looking at her directly, his face still holding that hint of expectation, missing its usual softness. Maybe she was interrupting something. Maybe he really was irritated with her for not being there at lunch.

"I am sorry," she blurted out again. "I just wanted you to know..." Wanda began, questioning herself. Was it really appropriate to show up to Vision's door at one in the morning to apologize for missing a communal lunch? Probably not.

"I should go," she said, echoing the tone of her thoughts. She stood to leave. She'd come to make her apology known and she did just that, now there was nothing left for her to do here.

Vision stood, following suit, his brows still pulled together and his lips a tight line, as if he were concentrating on something difficult, puzzling. Wanda thought it was an odd expression on his face, as if he shouldn't be able to contort his features that way.What could possibly ever puzzle him?

Wanda reached for the door handle, ready to make her escape to solitude. Perhaps she simply wasn't ready for socializing beyond platitudes and small talk. Maybe she never would be.

Vision was behind her, politely walking her out. He had better manners than anyone she'd ever encountered but she was sure even he was ready to end this awkward conversation, to dismiss her from the room that she rudely invaded in the middle of the night. Yet she could smell him again, that dewy scent that rose from humid skin. It was clean, masculine and heady. He was so close, too close. Wanda turned to him, her fingers still clasped over the handle, her sweatshirt just brushing his chest. His broad shoulders, a muted magenta against the saffron light, was all she could see until she lifted her eyes to meet his.

His face had softened, his brows pulled up in a way she didn't recognize. His eyes searched hers, desperate for answers to questions he hadn't posed.

"Please, Wanda," he breathed, his voice a hushed plea. His hand reached up, gently stroking the hair along her temple, trailing his fingers down to cup her face. "Stay?" A simple request, yet a surge of emotion flooded her, making her eyes water with its intensity.

She rose on her feet to embrace him, teetering forward to bring her chest to his. Vision's eyes gazed downward at her mouth again, his expression self-doubting but full of _want_. Wanda lifted her chin to his, feeling the soft graze of his nose against hers before tentatively putting her lips against his mouth.

It started slow, languid in its desire to experience it fully, to let the neurons catch up, to feel the flood of dopamine. And then the kiss was explosive, fast-paced, desperate. Had she ever kissed before? She doubted it. Had he? It seemed so natural for him, like he practiced with a thousand lovers to lead him to this moment.

Wanda searched his body with her hands, letting each new sensation stoke the fire at her core: the cooled humid of his skin, the musky scent of his soap, the smooth vibranium laced along his sides. He was muscled but lithe, solid beneath her finger tips but yielding.

She felt his large hands trace her, exploring the curves of her jaw, her neck, her shoulders. At her waist he drew her closer, his embrace desperate, closing any space between them. Quickly he gripped behind her knees, forcing her to straddle him while he shifted their weight closer to the bed. Here she could feel all of him against her, hard and hot, the linen of his pants leaving nothing a secret. A soft moan escaped her without her permission, fueling the fervor of his kiss.

Vision gingerly set her on his bed, the blankets a midnight blue, inky in the lamp's glow. Wanda broke the kiss first, watching confusion cross Vision's face, only to be replaced with that raw desire when he saw her lift her sweatshirt. Wanda could snuff out the world with her power and yet she had never felt as omnipotent as she did, half dressed, under the gaze of Vision.

Vision kneeled beside her, bringing his mouth to her now exposed shoulders. His teeth grazed the sensitive skin of her neck as he pushed down the straps of her tank top, running his fingers over her chest and stomach as he reached for the hem. Slowly he drew up her shirt, her hair mussing and dropping back down along her shoulders in loose waves.

The sudden exposure made Wanda blush. Vision's appraisal made her anxious: was she what he hoped a woman would be? Was he as attracted to her as she was to him? Then his lips were back on hers, making her forget her questions, forget everything.

Wanda pulled herself up onto his lap, allowing him to lie his back against the bed. Here she could feel all of him again, and the intense pressure against her core made her eyes close and her breathing speed. Vision felt her reaction and gave an experimental roll of his hips. Wanda gasped at the sensation, the heat between them building within her.

Wanda sat up, her palms spread against his chest. She wanted to see him, the vermillion of his skin a stark contrast against the dark bedding, making him ethereal, god-like. Now was her turn to roll her hips, to watch Vision's eyes flutter, hear his sigh, watch his jaw tense against the pressure. The sight of his pleasure was dizzying, intoxicating. Vision gripped her hips, his skin cool but his touch hot, burning, an encouragement. Wanda slowly rolled her hips again, reveling in the dual sensation, the feeling of him beneath her and the sight of his enjoyment.

Vision guided Wanda to his side, his head nuzzled against her neck, planting small kisses where he could press them. Deftly his long fingers hooked the elastic of her pants as he raised his head to meet her gaze. His blue eyes intense, searching for any indication of a _no_. None was to be found.

Vision was propped on his knees next to her as she lie nude. Wanda could feel a warm flush starting at her chest and rising to her cheeks. Vision regarded her as though she were art, the only remaining piece crafted by a master, awe blatant on his face. His expression made her skin hotter, she could feel the warmth creep down her stomach and meet to pool with her center.

Vision slipped off his thin pants, returning to a kneel between Wanda's knees. Wanda glanced down quickly, to take in the sight of him before her, pious, as if he had but just himself to offer her. The burgundy skin was consistent, broken up only by the swirling bits of metal that made up his flesh. He appeared to be all _man_ , and that maleness seemed eager to please her.

Vision seemed to be waiting on her for a cue, permission to continue. Wanda relaxed her knees, and Vision inched forward, tracing her thighs, hips, and stomach with his fingers as he moved. His touch was worship, ceremonious in its study. He was atop her, fastidiously holding up his weight, the only pressure where their pelvises met. She felt small beneath him, the width of his shoulders covering her vision in crimson.

Tentatively he reached between them, his fingers feather soft as he explored her center. His touch was electric, charged; her eyes watered again at the sheer intensity of it all. It was all so much, too much, _la_ _petite_ _mort_ , she understood it now.

Slowly he aligned himself with her, pushing against her entrance. She gasped at the sensation, the sudden fullness, the image of him between her legs.

He cupped her face again in his large hand, sighed her name, and tenderly sheathed himself within her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, lost, unable to distinguish herself from him.

Vision curved inward to bring his mouth to her lips, caressing her face while he rhythmically moved his hips to meet hers. Wanda felt frantic, wild: she couldn't remember the last time she'd felt this unleashed, free. Vision slid a hand down, stroking her in time with his thrusts. Wanda moaned, the added pressure making her dizzy, her grasp on her reeled-in powers wavering, slipping with each new sensation, each thrust.

Vision moved his attention from her mouth, lightly sweeping his lips down her neck to her chest. His heavy breath cooling each mark along the trail, thrilling, adding to the strain of her mind.

Vision focused his mouth on her breast, gently kneading with lips and tongue. It was too much, an overload; Wanda was aware when her control slipped but she was too far gone to stop it. She was in Vision's mind, seeing herself before him, feeling her heat wrapped around him, the dual sensation a circuitry of ecstasy. A quiver, a gasp, her back arching; she wrapped her limbs around him, pulling him against her roughly, tightly, unbidden within his mind, greedily enduring his pleasure alongside hers. His face buried in her hair, hot on her neck, his breath erratic and his timing faltering, slowing, until he pleads a final, "please," and then he, too, quivers, pulling her tight for his release.


	6. Gravity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vision's perspective

Vision emerged from his en-suite, appreciating the fact that he existed in a time where hot showers were readily available. _Instant gratification_ was the term that came to his mind. Gratified he was: he felt more at ease, the resolve to remain distantly friendly with Wanda growing firm within his mind, like an armor, plated, guarded.

Between the repartee of his teammates and the mind-numbing television, Vision successfully distracted himself most of the evening. He managed to steel his thoughts from Wanda, so long as he did not linger on the way her shirt strained around her chest, her slender fingers brushing against his...

A distant sound, a murmur in the hallway, pulled him from his thoughts. Vision exhaled a breath, his body tense.

Someone was walking towards his room. Odd, given that his current neighbors were absent--all on leave for personal matters, making Vision the wing's sole inhabitant. Perhaps it was Stark with a pressing matter; that was the only time someone approached his room at such an early hour.

Vision pulled open his door, surprised to find it unlatched. He was still mastering human customs, one of which involved using the door rather than phasing into spaces. Earlier he had been desperate for solitude, focusing his energy on clearing his mind, the chatter of his teammates no longer present to divert his thoughts from her. Vision could now appreciate the irony of actively trying to _not_ think of a particular something. In his agitation he must not have drawn the door fully closed.

Standing before him now, the very object of his evening's mental agony-- _would the irony never end_? Vision wondered, chagrined at the way his pulse sped at the sight of her.

Wanda gasped, his sudden appearance in the doorway seemly startling her. He felt an echo of the morning's guilt, though this time it was she who was encroaching upon his space.

She looked refreshed, her skin bright and her eyes vibrant. Her sleep must have deep, restful, as he suspected. _Because you spied on her_ , he chided himself. Because his curiosity delved into selfishness, and that selfishness drove him to make questionable choices, which is exactly why he could not afford to continue this fixation.

It would pass. He hoped. Were human emotions not notoriously flippant?

She abruptly seemed skittish, eyes lowered while she shifted on her feet. Vision struggled to understand her behavior. She approached his door, surely she expected to find him here? Then he noticed her steal a glance at his chest, her eyes darting away quickly. Oh. Right. It was not within human protocol to be half dressed, standing in the doorway in the middle of the night. Wanda's glimpse was meant to be stealthy, he determined, and this stirred a reaction in him he did not fully understand.

"Umm," she whispered, and he found himself drawn to the fullness of her lips as she spoke, her anxiety drawing her mouth into an unfamiliar line. He took in her appearance, the spandex pants paired with the large hooded sweater, her slender frame oddly accentuated and hidden at the same time. Her skin was cream against the darkness of her clothes, rosy cheeks made pinker with the rush of her nervousness.

"I'm sorry," she continued, her voice now firm with conviction. Vision was pulled back to her eyes, serious, icy gray in the pale lighting. "I fell asleep." She was here to apologize. He thought of the way her body looked against her bed as she slept, the contour of her exposed stomach, the feel of her warm skin as he shifted her along the mattress. Surely it was he who should be apologizing.

"Miss..." An error, faulty thinking, distraction. Shame welled in his stomach as he realized his earlier resolve was slipping, crumbling away, stone to sand. A quick correction. Maybe she would not notice his mistake. "Wanda." It felt good to speak her name aloud, to form his mouth around the sounds that haunted his memory. "I'm glad you took my advice," he felt his smile widen, "and got some rest." He thought again of the smoothness of her lean calves pressed against his arm. His skin ached to feel her heat, the neurons calling for action potential, release.

Her quiet laugh filled the air around them. He realized, then, that he would always desire this from her as well: to be the one to coax her smile, to share in the small moments that made her happy.

  
He followed her eyes to his hand still resting on the door handle. Did she want to be invited into his room? He felt a heat spread across his cheeks, grateful his skin hid his blush.

"Please, come in." He stepped aside, watching as she chose the modest chair. He was half relieved, half disappointed: sharing proximity in his room with her was novel, he was not sure how his body would react to sharing his bed. It seemed intimate, suggestive. Heat pooled at his center with the thought of her lean body sprawled along his bed. There: more of that resolve tumbling away. With a sigh, he sat himself along the edge of his mattress.

Vision watched as Wanda glanced about his room. The lamp's glow tinted her hair auburn and darkened her eyes. He noted the way his skin, too, appeared a deeper carmine in the low light. Surely she must find his otherness unappealing. And yet.. she was here. Looking at him. Her face was indecipherable, a skilled impartial, yet her fingers twitched, nervous. Maybe she too felt the electricity weighing heavily in the air.

"What time is it?" she asked. Could she really not know the hour? Vision answered, watching for a change in her features, wondering if she was surprised with his response. Her brows creased but she remained the same, unfazed. She eyed him intently for a moment, then rose. "I should go," she half-whispered, moving toward the door. A shift, she was ever-mercurial.

Panic crept down his spine at her departure. Its suddenness stunned him, the feeling intense, calling for action. The desire to have her stay, to hear her voice, to touch her skin, consumed him. Something about the moment seemed pivotal, though he could not name the reason.

He followed behind her. It was the brush of her shoulder against him, the slight parting of her lips as she turned to look him in the eye. There it was, the last of his resolve, a shroud, torn and tattered at his feet. That desire for _action_ called louder, forming an impulse (a release of neurotransmitters, a rush of sodium, potassium, an excitability).  
He watched as his hand rose to touch her face, as though he were bystander, peripheral to his own body. Slowly, greedily, his finger traced the arch of her cheek. Her eyes closed as she sighed, her head leaning into his caress.

It was his turn to whisper. "Please, Wanda." Imploring, summoned from the core of his cells, upward, boiling over the surface into words. "Stay." His hand sunk into the wave of her hair, curling down to rest along her jaw. Her pulse thrummed along his fingers, her short draws of breath a mirror of his own. Anxiety roiled through him: surely he overstepped his bounds, surely his feelings were not reciprocated, surely, surely.

And then she closed the space between them, an answer, a confirmation. Her arms rose to encircle him, hot skin pressed around his neck, a collar of _yes_.

She leaned forward, eyes on his, as she pressed her mouth against him. He lost himself to that pull for _action_ , letting what he named _instinct_ take over: he moved his lips in time with hers, shadowing her lead. He felt the tentative skim of her tongue, an appreciative moan escaping him in response. He had read of this experience, of kissing, of lips and tongues meeting, but _doing_ was wholly other, new--he was engulfed in the burn of her hot skin against his, the way her hands were roaming along his bare arms and chest, brushing against the waist of his pants before trailing back up. Her touch was searing, he burned beneath her fingers, the knowledge that she was kissing him a fire that lapped at his consciousness and pooled at the apex of his thighs.

Emboldened, he paralleled her exploration, drawing his hands up to embrace her, to memorize the feel of the supple skin of her neck, the curve of the small of her back. Closer he lured her, wanting to submerge himself in the sensation, the way her body pressed against his, firm but yielding. Her hips ground into him, a wanton gesture, gasoline to the flame. He needed more, the contact a combustion that was consuming him, atom by atom, entropy. He gripped the hollow of her knees, pulling her upward, her ankles locking behind him. The pressure was intense, eliciting a moan from her against his mouth, making him throb uncomfortably against the heat of her core.

He guided them to his bed, his focus strained, pulled between the heat where their bodies met and ensuring his density remained solid enough to hold both Wanda and himself upright. Finally he felt the bedframe bump his shins and lowered her upon the bedding. She let herself lean back, breaking their kiss. He was mesmerized by the sight of her: kiss-swollen lips, eyes gleaming, a mischievous smirk. He watched as her long fingers gripped the bottom of her sweatshirt, pulling it over her head, her tank top riding up to expose the taut skin of her stomach.  
  
Vision was unsure how so many humans got it wrong. There were passages, books, prayers--whole religions--dedicated to an abstract idea of heaven, pearly gates and white robes and feathered wings. How human it was, he mused, to create a fantasy when the obtainable was right at hand.

He knelt beside her, a position decidedly reverent, eager to finally taste her alabaster skin. Mouth against her neck, he let his tongue follow the line of her pulse. At Wanda's sigh, an incitement, he added a new sensation, grazing his teeth along the sensitive flesh she exposed to him. She rewarded him with a small hiss of pleasure, her body arching to meet his mouth.

He fought the tremble of his fingers, urging them to hold steady, to not give away his nervousness, as he pushed down the straps of her black top. His hands cascaded down her body as he reached for the hem, allowing a brief linger over the form of her breasts. Slowly he lifted her shirt, enjoying the way the material caught around her chest, freeing itself dramatically, appealingly.

Shirt tossed aside, she lie before him, chestnut waves drifting down her shoulders, a flush accentuating the curve of her breasts, the cerise of her lips. Surely this eden could not be real, surely there was an error in his functioning. As he took in the sight of her, he quickly scanned his body for an errant code, a misconstruction. All his systems appeared in order. It was the last he would allow himself to question this, this woman that was giving herself to him now. He would be a pyre, an offering: anything to appease her, to keep her here in his bed, this witch, this Eve. He descended back to her mouth, making each kiss devout, worship.

Wanda shifted below him, guiding his body against his mattress. Vision appreciated the new perspective, the way her figure shadowed, her hair a crimson halo against the lamp's glow. She brought her knees to either side of his hips, the fevered heat of her core burning against his hardness. She sharply inhaled at the contact, spurring his desire to elicit more. He gripped her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and ground himself against her. He was rewarded with her gasp, the sound and friction threatening to short-wire his thinking permanently.

Wanda splayed her palms against his chest, absently tracing the fine lines along his skin. Vision felt nervousness creep in under her study, self-conscious at his lack of experience, at his otherness. Could he ever be worthy of her?

He noticed the sides of her mouth pull up, hinting of a grin, before he felt the move of her hips, the way she slid herself along the length of his shaft. Vision grit his teeth against a guttural moan, damning the fabric that lie between them. His body called more still (would it ever be enough?), fingers demanding more motion from her hips, more friction, more heat, a raise of his pelvis to seek out that _more_.

Quickly, _impulsively_ , Vision pulled her down to his side, turning to face her. The curtain of her hair restricting access to her neck, he nipped and kissed where he could, his hands trailing down, purposeful. There he found the waist of her pants, the elastic hugging her hips, spandex pulled tight at her mound. Sitting up, he slid them down her thighs, watching as the cream of her skin was exposed to him (just for him), until every inch of her was bared to him (just for him).

There was an appeal, he decided, in the slow removal of clothing, the way the air hit newly revealed skin. He could simply phase out of his pants but there was something about the experience, something human, an anticipation, in the way the fabric pulled and bunched. Plus there was the way she stared at him, eyes wide, an appraisal, as she observed his body. There was no mistaking the appreciation in her gaze as she eyed him standing bare before her (just for her). And yet apprehension ate at him, the weight of the situation cumulating; a yearning for _action_ , yet a fear of vulnerability.

Her smile beckoned him back, kneeling at her legs like sinner at the altar, obsequious. The parting of her knees a summon, his palms moved up the toned muscles of her calves, her thighs, thumbs dragging along her hips. As he made his way above her, faces aligned, he felt the tip of his member brush against her, hot, blazing, a shudder along his spine.

Carefully (she was so soft, she could destroy him in so many ways, but she was _so soft_ ) he inched his hand downward between them, seeking out the source of heat that burned at her center. He explored her, fingers brushing against her plush lips, slickness making him throb in time with his pulse. He gauged her reactions, the arch of her back, the push of her hips, the hushed moans caught in her throat. The build within him threatened to spill over, the want of _more_ warring with his desire to explore every endless combination of his body against hers. The need to feel her entirely, from within, won: he slid himself inside her, an ushering. Fervid and all-consuming, the feeling of her wrapped around him, unyielding, bringing him close to an edge which he had never before fallen.

He knew he could not submit, not yet, not before seeing her come undone at his doing. Her breathing heavy beneath him, hips urging him to thrust harder, deeper, Sokovian pleads against the quiet of the night. He returned his hand to her core, fingers working the small bud of nerves, coaxing her to the edge with him. His mouth hungrily met hers, the hum of her moans a current that buzzed along his nerves. The camber of her back drawing his lips lower, down her throat and across her chest, marking her breast with his tongue, her nipple pebbling.

He felt her draw of breath, the expansion of her lungs, a sudden gasp, before he sensed her in his mind: red tendrils lapping his thoughts, coating them in a dull dual impression. Each ministration heightened, a thrum of something extra, added. An echo of the previous morning (had it really been so few hours since they shared tea?), the pitch was certainly _her_ , enveloped in his consciousness. And there he sensed her lose control, the build within her too strong, a torrent that fired at every neuron, singularly yet synchronized, a wave. Her nails bit his skin, her legs pulled him closer, and it was enough to draw him over the edge, _l'appel du vide_ , to affix him to her forever, a gravitational lure.

It was bliss, euphoria, binary: blankness, dreamlike, yet an awareness of every fiber, of every plexus, axon, dendrite. It was burning at her feet, an altar, only to be restored, resurrected in the gentle tremble of her arms, the soft press of her lips against his shoulder. She sighed his name, _Vizh_ , an intonation, drawing him back to consciousness, revival.

He shifted to her side, appreciating the way she nuzzled into the crook of his arm, her body pressed along the length of his. Vision wondered at how she fit so perfectly against him, her head cradled along his chest. His body has been designed to do so many things--yet he had not considered this, that holding her would be amongst its best function.

Wanda's breathing was steady, easy, a soft hum in the still of his room. Her skin was hot where it met his, a seal of contentedness, cohesion. Her loose curls tumbled along the sheets, mahogany contrasted against a sea of navy. He marveled at the texture against his skin, the way each strand met the other, individual yet banded, forming a twined wave. Absently he traced his fingers along her arm, wanting to absorb as much detail of her body as he could without waking her.

 

 


	7. Worthy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More Vision and Wanda smut and fluff mostly.
> 
> Will try to add new chapters more frequently!

She was pulled from her dreamless sleep softly, a cascade of senses gently returning, like a flower opening to the morning's sun. First she felt his fingers moving along her, a slow glide on the course of her arm. She was pressed against him, the murmur of his heart a muffled drum against her temple. At some point he covered her, the feather duvet shielding her from the cool of early morning air.

In a rush, their encounter's memory flooded back, leaving her neck and cheeks hot in its wake. She lifted her chin to see him, not entirely sure what expression she would find on his face.

He sifted his hand through her hair, mouth forming a smile as he met her gaze. This smile was new to her: it was his usual bashful, self-conscious grin mixed with something other, something knowing. _Pride_. She couldn't help but smile back in response.

"'Morning," she mumbled, turning her head to meet the fingers that grazed her scalp.

"Good morning," his voice was low, hushed to mirror the stillness of the room. His other hand absently traced patterns along her bare shoulder. She felt him shift beneath her, then his lips on her forehead, a chaste gesture that woke her body to his presence. He kissed her temple, her cheek, and then, hesitating briefly, lowered his mouth to hers. She felt him sigh against her, his hand pausing its aimless trek along her collar bone. It was easy to get lost in the sensation of him, the warmth of his body against hers, the blaze his kiss set to her nerves.

He pulled himself upright again, resuming his fingers' path onward against her revealed skin. He stared distantly, seemingly surveying the small room, disapproval threatening to pull at his mouth. She was beginning to read his little mannerisms, like the way he focused on something remote while he mentally formulated a difficult question. She was a quick learner but he was also more human than he gave himself credit for—even he was not exempt from body language belying his thoughts.

She rested her head against his chest again, the beat of his heart a quiet thrum, its tempo quickened from its earlier pace. She followed the exposed vibranium down his lean stomach, letting her fingers outline the swirl of red flesh meeting cool metal. His heart hummed faster in response.

"What are you thinking about?" she posed before giving into the temptation to follow that filigree lower.

"Ah—" she felt him take a steadying breath.

Maybe she should give into that temptation. 

"I was thinking about earlier...” His hands paused again, his heart missed a beat.

"What about earlier?" She felt her cheeks warm at the question. Did he regret inviting her in, experiencing this with her? She fought the urge to look him in the eye, afraid of the disappointment she might find there.

"It is just that, ah, well," he fidgeted, “I rather enjoyed the experience. And I was hoping you enjoyed it, too?” His voice trailed off in question. She looked up at him then, apprehension crossing his brow.

He was worried she hadn’t enjoyed herself. He felt her in his mind, that she was certain. He felt the product of his ministrations, the echo of her climax loudly reverberated through him. And yet he doubted himself, doubted her desire for him?

She rolled inward to him, mouth meeting ribs, and there she planted small kisses. She watched as his brow relaxed, worry melting into a hopeful need. She worked her way downward, moving the duvet that covered him as she went, happy to discover he hadn’t yet dressed himself.

Past the cool metal ornamenting his hips she found him hard, ready for her, pulse throbbing through his erection. With tentative fingers she grasped him, giving an experimental pump. She heard him draw a breath; emboldened, she gripped him harder, enjoying the way his skin slid against her palm. Vision sighed a phrase she couldn’t decipher, letting his head fall back against the pillow.

Wanda leaned in to taste him, drawing her tongue from base to tip. His skin was textured but smooth, metallic with a hint of their earlier endeavor. She drew him into her mouth—just a little at first, to tease him, to let him experience it fully. She watched him as she took more of his length, watched as the muscles of his stomach pulled taut, watched as he raised his hands to his face as if in disbelief, the deftness of her tongue and hand working in sync beyond his realm of comprehension.

She worked him for a few moments before releasing him with an audible _pop_. He brought himself to his elbows, the dark look of lust in his eyes made Wanda simultaneously blush and grin: it was a rush to have this type of power over him, a rush she had never wanted to relinquish.

“Wanda,” he half whispered, half begged, his eyes pleading for direction. Again, that rush of power. She did not have a plan when she initiated this but now heat pooled at her center, demanding friction, release. She ached to be filled again, sore as she was, the emptiness gnawing, growing the longer she waited.

Vision was still looking at her, imploring for some sort of touch, for anything. Gingerly she made her way to his lap, straddling his hips between her knees. She lowered herself, trapping his length between them, her slick folds hinting at what was to come.

“How could you question if I wanted this?” she asked him, remembering the look of doubt he’d given her. It felt so obvious to her, the depth of her need, the way her body responded to him.

He raised his hands to stroke her face, letting his fingers slide down her shoulders, settling on her hips. He gazed up at her, awe coloring his features somber.

“You have no idea, Wanda, do you? You are extraordinary, powerful, _beautiful—_ and you chose to share this,” he gestured at her, “with _me_? I have no alternative but to question.”

Men had called her many things, she’d read it in their minds, had let their dark desires seep into the air, toxic, oil in water. But Vision’s words were impassioned, weighted by their simplicity, his earnestness, the way he found beauty in things without wanting to take, without snuffing it out.

She brought her face to his, easing her way into a slow kiss. His lips were smooth, his mouth inviting and his tongue hot against hers. She didn’t have the will, with him pressed between her legs, to convince him he had it all wrong, that it was she who was undeserving. She was damaged in ways he couldn’t understand, ways that came with being human and vengeful. He was pure, born of compassion and righteousness. She didn’t warrant the passion in his lips against hers, the way his hands slid her hips along him.

She would show him. In every way, she would show him how unworthy the world was to have him.

She raised herself, angling her hips to grant him access. She felt his sigh against her mouth, saw his eyes shut in agonizing surrender. Wanda sat upright, lifting her body from him in timed beats, enjoying the way he filled her, the way his fingers marred the flesh of her hips.

His breathing quickened and his hips met hers in quick drives, desperate for as much purchase as he could find. And there—that spot within her, suddenly pulling her to the edge, each thrust a drop threatening to overspill.

Vision sat up, lacing a hand through her hair, drawing her to his chest. She felt his pulse along his neck, heard the sound of his moan as she ran her teeth against his skin. With his other hand guiding her hips, he was in control, dictating her motions, hard and fast, frantic and needful.

She was conscious, this time, of when she came to that edge—drawing all energy to focus on the sensation of him within her, the way he drew back to watch her peak. Lost in the feeling, drowning, she heard him say her name, as if through water. He gripped her, pulling her tight as he groaned in release, his throbbing reeling her back up to reality.

Foreheads pressed together as their breathing slowed, she opened her eyes to steal a glance at him. His arms remained around her, the crimson of his skin stark against hers. She liked the contrast, liked the way he matched the electric tendrils of her fingers: mesmerizing and terrifying in their power. In the amber light of his room, the patterns on his flesh melded together, a plane of red and silver. He was beautiful, in all ways. She was resolved let him know that, so long as he let her.

He opened his eyes, the cobalt of his iris barely visible against the dilation of his pupil. He sighed, a sound that was half relief, half laugh—a new sound from him, cataloged to her study of his body language. A slow smile unfurled along his face.

“Wanda?”

“Hmm?”

“It’s nearly five in the morning.”

How was she ever going leave his bed?

 


	8. Serene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vision’s perspective, the ending of a night he doesn’t want to end. 
> 
> Will be editing shortly!

He felt her eyelashes skim his chest before her breathing changed, that deep rhythmic sound shifting to something quicker, alert. She didn’t move for a moment, her stillness making him second guess himself, her face just out of view.

He allowed his hands to continue their trek, her soft skin too bare to be left untouched, memorizing the graceful lines of her shoulders, the sight of her light, unburdened by the world.

She gazed up at him, the milky expanse of her neck exposed, her eyes wide and her face pink where it had been pressed along him. Her hair fell loosely against her shoulders, the waves an auburn cascade, dark in the dim light of his room.

“‘Morning,” she murmured, sleep making her voice heavy though her face was alight, radiant in the wake of rest and endorphins, lips plump from his unrestrained enthusiasm.

“Good morning,” he felt himself whisper, afraid that speaking any louder would break this spell, would wake him from this dream. He tried to quiet the stir of his body, puzzled at the way the feeling of her against him was paradox, exciting and calming. Yet the desire to touch her was magnetic, drawing him closer, pulling him in. He let himself steal a kiss, lips feather-soft against her forehead, until he was lost in that sensation, the feeling of her flesh against his mouth. Her temple, the soft of her cheek, and finally her lips, all so different, all so enticing. He could kiss her a thousand times and it’d never be enough.

And yet...

Perhaps she could tire easily of this, of him. He willed himself upright, permitting his fingers access to her skin, chaste and unassuming.

She was difficult to read, her expressions often neutral, belying little of her thoughts. And with her head against his chest, he lacked access to her eyes, the set of her brow often the greatest cue to her mood. She didn’t pull away from his touch, her fingers spread along his chest, still at first, then absently tracing patterns along his flesh.

Lightly she grazed his skin, outlining the fissures of melding metal and muscle. Was she repulsed at what she saw now, given the difference in atmospheres? Had his otherness finally sunk into her psyche? Anxiety crept along his spine and pooled in his stomach.

That stomach she was currently touching, forming small circles that seemed to be sweeping lower with each pass. It was another feeling creeping up his spine now.

“What are you thinking about?” Wanda asked, making him form responses he couldn’t possibly give.

_I’m thinking about what would happen if you continued downward._

_I’m wondering if you find me boring yet._

_I’m wondering if it’s possible for you to truly find me appealing._

_I’m thinking of how much I’d like to repeat the events from earlier...forever_.

“Ah—“ he stalled, trying to clear his mind enough to form a coherent—and appropriate—response.

“I was thinking about earlier...” he settles on the truth. At least part of it.  
  
“What about earlier?” She asks, innocent, and yet a blush spills across her cheeks. Odd. _Fascinating_. That magnetic force threatening to pull him in, to make him forget the conversation and get lost in seeing how far down that blush goes.

_Focus, focus._

“It is just that, ah, well,” again he opted for truth, though more fully this time, “I rather enjoyed the experience. And I was hoping you enjoyed it, too.” The sound of her moans beneath him played in his mind. She did seem to enjoy herself. She was still here, in his arms. Yet the need for reassurance nagged at him. Feeling inadequate was so _human_.

She looked up at him then, her brows pulled tight in a mingle of confusion and frustration. Then her mouth was against his chest, her lips pressing hot kisses against him, making her way lower and lower until her fingers wrapped around his length, achingly firm and yet not quite _enough_.

He felt himself draw a breath, noticing a sly grin spread along her lips. She was devious in her stillness, taking pleasure in the complete power she held over him as she slowly moved her hand along his length.

Tighter she gripped him, becoming more assured of his pleasure, of the way she made him lose control. It was bliss beneath her touch, burning against her hand, a disorienting break in reality that made him question if this was simply her touch or a power of hers he wasn’t yet aware.

She stilled a moment and he felt her move forward, a second of doubt crossing his mind before—

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Her tongue, hot and wet, brushed along him until he was lost in the sensation of her mouth, enveloping, searing. She moved slowly, a gentle lap of her tongue as she bobbed her head. Then she returned her hand, gripping him in unison with the movement of her mouth. Surely this was no longer reality, this scorching of his flesh that burned down into the core of his being, replacing every thought with mindless feeling, the emotion a pendulum of _her_ and _want_.

But before he was lost entirely, she stopped, looking up to meet his confusion with a grin. He needed her and she knew it, the absence of her touch torture, and he suffered only at her hand.

“Wanda,” he begged, knowing how desperate he sounded and not caring. This was honesty: needing her and telling her, vulnerability be damned.

She held his gaze as she moved forward, carefully lining her hips up with his, her knees tight along his hips. The heat of her core pressed against him, warm and moist but denying him movement, purchase. It was a pleasant kind of prison, one that allowed him the sight of her, bare skin glowing beneath a curtain of chestnut waves, the curve of her breasts juxtaposed against the dark of his room.

“How could you question if I wanted this?” she posed, pulling him from his trance. This ethereal being who had him pinned beneath her, lost in her spell, was ignorant of the depth of his feelings, the merit of her affections. Anything she asked of him, he would provide—she was his alter, and each moment he would bring her an offering, a sacrifice. She deserved everything he had and more. Would he ever be enough?

He reached up to caress her face, her features a painful mix of doubt and seriousness he wished to smooth into something content, warm. He let his hands fall along her body, fixing on her hips to pull her closer, tighter.

“You have no idea, Wanda, do you?” And he was certain, in that moment, she did not. How couldn’t she? It was a mystery to him.

“You are extraordinary, powerful, _beautiful_ —and you chose to share this with _me_? I have no alternative but to question.” She must know, truly, her command over him, the way she stole his attention from anything else, the way she demanded a reckoning of his feelings, his humanity.

And then her mouth descended upon his, slow but fervent, charged with something he didn’t entirely understand. He was lost again in the sensation of her, her tongue against his, the slickness of her folds along his straining hardness. His body reveled in her touch but still called for more, to feel her from the inside, to greedily consume all she might offer.

Like an answer to his entreaty, she slid him inside her, and he felt her gasp at the change in sensation. She moved atop him, setting the pace, an agonizing cadence that satisfied yet made him hunger, pulling her hips to meet his until forcefully at the hilt.

Her sighs quickened, threatening to pull him to the edge too quickly, the sound of her coming undone too much for any man to bear. He felt her movements falter, her concentration wavering as the muscles inside her began to quiver.

Vision sat up, pulling her against him, restoring her earlier tempo, beckoning her to that brink. She dragged her teeth along his neck, a stinging that alighted his nerves and made his fingers grip her tighter, harder.

He felt her succumb, the tightening of her muscles, the way she gripped him, biting nails and soft moans. And it was enough to send him over, throbbing inside her, that break in reality once more.

Slowly the world returned, he focused on her steady breathing, the sheen of her skin where their bodies met. Her arms dangled loosely around his neck, a lazy caress that filled his chest with its casualness, its closeness.

He met her gaze, her face rosy with exertion, her wide eyes a steely blue that watched him intently. She was mesmerizing, in all states, but sated and warm with him still inside her might be his favorite.

He thought of earlier, when she’d shown up at his door unaware of the time, too caught up in her thoughts. He couldn’t help but laugh at how unconscious she must of it now.

“Wanda?”

“Hmm?” Her answer a soft hum, a languid smile coloring her question.

He could get used to this, these quiet conversations shared with her, warm and naked and jointed on his bed, the early hour a hushed blanket of serentity.

“It’s nearly five in the morning.”

Though he wished it were not, though he wished he could pause time to keep her here with him, like this, indefinitely.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone that’s read this far!
> 
> So this will be the end of this story. It’s been really fun and I love how it’s let me grow as a writer. I’ve learned so much!
> 
> That said, I think I definitely have come to prefer writing as a single character (namely Vision). I will continue doing one-shots of various fluff and smut!
> 
> Just a few more months until Infinity War comes out and we can all (finally) get some on-screen ~romance~!
> 
> Thanks for sticking it out this long with me :)


	9. Reprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonus chapter  
> Beware, very fluffy smut.

She woke in the middle of the night, the red numbers on her small clock blurred with sleep. Gray light poured in from the window, illuminating the clothes strewn along her floor.

Weeks had settled into months, and somewhere in the lapse of time her nights gave way to sleep rather than nightmares.

Well, most nights.

She felt his breath, hot against her throat as he pressed languid kisses along her now speeding pulse. Her mind reeled to catch up, the lull of sleep quickly eaten away by the surge of heat that poured from her chest and pooled at her core.

“I was sleeping,” she pouted, turning into him, his mouth meeting hers.

“Some of us actually need sleep,” she groaned when their lips parted, her breath coming heavier than it should.

He shifted his weight, pressing heavily between her thighs, her arms lacing around his neck to draw him closer, tighter.

His lips descended to her neck, teeth grazing along her collar bone before his mouth found her breast.

“I could stop, if you wish,” he teased, the air of his breath chilling her flesh.

“Please don’t,” she hummed, barely more than a whisper.

“I miss you when you sleep,” he sighed, lining himself up to her entrance, finding her already wet and more than willing.

Slowly he entered her, as if the night called for secrecy, stillness. The hardness of his length left no room for doubt at exactly how much he missed her while she slept.

He lead the pace, tender, relaxed, his arms wrapped under her shoulders, his soft moans trapped in the heat of her hair.

The thought crept into her mind that this was lovemaking, and its silliness made her cheeks warm, yet it pulled at her heart and threatened to gloss her eyes.

Her hips rolled in time with his, hinting at a faster pace, something to distract her from the thoughts that were threatening to color her emotions warm with love.

And yet, as his fingers lowered and worked her, that feeling blossomed: this was comfort, lost in his embrace, lost in the way her needs always came before his own. This was dedication, this was unconditional. And it was beautiful, the way she could come undone beneath his touch, unselfconscious, like being nude below him was as second nature as breathing.

She distantly recognized that his lazy thrusts had turned into something more demanding, deliberate. And when he sighed her name, his release as gratifying as her own, she couldn’t help but become fully submerged—she loved him, wholly, and it was a pleasant drowning, listening to his breathing calm as she cradled him against her chest, her heart filling with blood and emptying with something new, something hotter that threatened to rake her body with happiness.

Sleep would come, and he would be there when she woke again.

 

 


	10. Reiterate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vision’s perspective.

The night was still, motionless, a pause in time like a photograph. Even the trees outside were restful, the summer’s humidity a heavy blanket in the air.

She slept beside him, her skin warm where it met his. Her auburn waves were wild against the pillow, tendril shadows in the dark, making her pale skin appear to glow, translucent and otherworldly.

She was bare, her arms folded neatly along her chest, the sight of her reminiscent of the Renaissance: all she needed was a crown of flowers. He wished then that he were a painter—he could give her so much more on canvas than he could in real life.

He sighed, unwilling to let himself go down that path.

What mattered was that she was here, next to him, in her room. She used to ask him to stay. Now leaving is no longer a question: his place is beside her, always. 

At least, as much as this double life allows.

He let his fingers trace the lines of her shoulders, the muscles there lithe yet feminine, strong from the effort of casting her spells. Her growth would never cease to amaze him: there was beauty in her strength, despite the small thrill of fear that it sparked in him. 

Her breaths were steady beneath his touch, the only sound in the room. A somberness colored his thoughts: how many breaths did she have left, how many more times would he be privileged to see her chest rise and fall in peaceful sleep?

Would he have the courage to tell her before those breaths ran out?

He fought back a groan.

He recognized this melancholy seeping into his thoughts more frequently, the nights next to her bittersweet: she was the greatest happiness he’d known, yet each second that ticked by threatened to rip her from him, to leave his life colorless.

His body demanded her touch, desperate for her comfort, her warmth. His lips were on her shoulder, following the soft lines up to her neck, the thrumming of her pulse beneath his mouth an enticing reassurance.

He felt her breathing change before she turned to face him, the planes of her body shifting, making his body react in turn. 

“I was sleeping,” she mumbled, her mouth seeking his, stilly clumsy with sleep, her lips hot and slow and accepting.

“Some of us actually need sleep,” she breathed between his broken kiss, and he couldn’t help but smile at her tone.

He _should_  let her sleep but he was selfish and greedy, his body needing her touch and his heart needing to hear her words, her moans. His need for her was all-consuming. Would it ever be enough?

He supposed not, as he found himself between her thighs, the heat at her core beckoning him closer. Her thin arms wrapped around him, pulling his body flush along hers, the press of her breasts against his chest making him throb in time with his heart. 

He let his mouth wander, enjoying the taste of her skin, the feel of her flesh against his lips and tongue and teeth. 

“I could stop, if you wish,” he offered, knowing by the way her hips moved against him that stopping was the opposite of what she wanted.

“Please don’t,” she replied, breathy, gratifying, making him painfully hard.

“I miss you when you’re asleep.” It was the truth, though he left out his desperation for her, the way his heart felt heavy with every moment he missed, he wasted. He left out the part about how seeing her, touching her, was the best part of his day, every day. 

He let that speak for itself in the lightness of his touch, in the way he restrained his wild want for her, reformed it into something tender, something soft.

He slowly guided himself inside her, her heat and slickness giving little resistance, her body welcoming. And it was excitingly mind numbing, jarring his thoughts from the ether of possibility to the burn of the moment, tethering him to this reality, the one where somehow he was fortunate enough to exist in the same time as her.

It was his turn to pull her close, to wrap her beneath him in this moment so that their melding was the only law their atoms could abide. He wanted nothing more than to feel her, nothing but her, her hair against his face and her moans against his skin and the endless burning heat that engulfed him—to blot out all the thoughts that haunted him in her quiet moments.

It was habit now, knowing how to touch her, when to let his fingers swirl against the place she needed while maintaining his rhythm inside her, steady and deep. And with habit comes reward: the way her legs tremble against him, her nails pressing crescent marks along his flesh, the way she always seems surprised by the intensity of it all.

And he can’t help but follow her over that edge, her body wrapped tight around him, his name a whisper on her breath that sends a shiver down his spine. 

Their breathing slowed together as she drew absent patterns along his skin. His head on her chest, he listened to her heart settle into its normal beat, a calming _thump-thump_ that promised she existed, here in his arms. And with his own heart satiated, he could bear lose her to sleep for the time being. 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So... This is my first fanfic. Ever. Will continue on for a few more chapters. Please give feedback if you'd like!


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